


Now & Then

by Zedrobber



Category: War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Incest, M/M, Multi, Threesome, m/f/m
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6130759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zedrobber/pseuds/Zedrobber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dolokhov reflects on how his relationship with Anatole and Helene has evolved over the years; always worrying and wondering if they love him as much as he loves them both and what it would mean for them if they did. This fic switches between 1802 and 1807 but is labeled as such.</p><p>NOTE:<br/>This fic is primarily based on the 2016 War & Peace TV Series; however I have taken a few liberties from the book and from (strangely) Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812, in that Anatole has a house near the barracks as mentioned in the book & that Dolokhov's characterisation is a little more introspective than we're given in the 2016 series. However, for all intents and purposes, this is a 2016 series fic so I have tagged it as such. Thanks!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**1807**

The thing was, Dolokhov thought not for the first time, was that it shouldn't be so easy to fall in love in the first place. He should have been able to fuck them and leave, barely even giving them a second glance. But how could he, really, when they were so very beautiful, so very alike that to choose between them would be a crime.

When they looked up at him, in that eerily synchronized way that seemed to short circuit his brain a little, he was completely lost to all reason. Even the little voice in his head that repeatedly chastised him for getting involved with this was silent when they both gave him their full, intense attention, his world narrowing to them and them alone, the beating of his heart and the rush of blood to his cock.

Or, like now, the feeling of Anatole's hot mouth on his cock, his eyes dark and seemingly permanently amused as he looked up at Dolokhov, slowly and methodically teasing him to the point where he was about to challenge the boy to a duel if he didn't let him come. Anatole’s beautiful sister knelt beside him, her soft lips and tongue teasing and licking and kissing wherever there was room, and the feeling of both of them worshipping his cock was so overwhelming he thought he could die happy. 

With a final, wickedly slow swirl of his tongue, Anatole pulled back to switch with his sister, Hélène leaning in to take Dolokhov into her mouth. She was gentler, but no less maddening, and now they were both looking up at him with their eyes blown black and their faces open and expressive in a way they never were around other people.

Dolokhov alone was allowed in; he was privy to the most intimate moments of their relationship, more or less. He had never dared ask why, sure that he would be disappointed with the answer, but he was proud and honoured beyond belief anyway, amazed that two such beautiful creatures would want him as their lover. Would want him at all, when it was absolutely clear to him that they were everything to each other whether they would speak it aloud or not. There was a delicate balance, a tightrope he walked, secure enough to love them both desperately but always wobbling, always checking his footing because he had absolutely no idea if they loved him even a little- and he had been walking that tightrope for nearly 5 years now.

He groaned low in his throat, the sight of them both at his feet, on their knees for him like good whores so intoxicating that he had to bite his lip to distract himself. Did they even realise how in sync they were? He moved, she moved; he pulled back and she surged forward, taking his cock deeper into her throat. Anatole's fingers were gripping his hip tightly, his nails digging in painfully, and she mirrored his grip on the other side, pulling her head back now so that Anatole could move in, his tongue curling around Dolokhov's cock obscenely, giving him the most insolent smirk he had ever seen. The heat was incredible, the tightness of her mouth and the insistent attentions of Anatole's lips almost unbearable.

 He swore, creatively and loudly, and grabbed painfully at both of their hair, dragging them in closer and thrusting his hips forward impatiently with a growl. They just chuckled, giving him a delightfully knowing look and pressing their hands against his hips to steady him, and Dolokhov could do nothing except lean back against the wall helplessly. "You bastards," he groaned, his hands still tangled in their hair, half tugging, half petting.

Finally they took pity on him, moving as one so that Anatole once again had his damnably beautiful lips-lips just made to suck cock, Dolokhov frequently thought- around Dolokhov, Hélène standing so she could kiss him. She tasted of him, and still faintly of Anatole from earlier, before he had arrived; he kissed her greedily, moving the hand in her hair down to her neck and cupping it, his thumb caressing her cheek. She was pressed tight against his side, her soft breasts warm, her heartbeat fluttering and fast under her skin.

And as distracting as that was, Anatole was sucking his cock with abandon now, fast and hard and vicious, his eyes narrowed and focused on Dolokhov and his sister with absolute concentration and lust, and Dolokhov gave in despite wanting to see this forever, and came with a snarl, keeping his eyes open till the last moment he could and watching as Anatole swallowed his seed without even breaking eye contact.

He collapsed against the wall, sliding down beside Anatole and Hélène with a weary grin and shaky legs. He pulled them both to him, kissing Anatole messily and tasting himself, and sighed in contentment as they rested their heads against him.

"Miss me?" he teased once his breath was back. "Anyone would think you couldn't manage without me."

"Oh Fedya, " Hélène smiled against his chest- a genuine smile, one that made her nose crinkle and that made Anatole smile to see it. "Of course we can't." Anatole hummed agreement without speaking, his eyes half closed and watching her, always watching, adoration beyond comprehension in that half-hidden gaze. Dolokhov sometimes felt a shadow of that adoration when they turned the gaze on him, feeling warm in its glow and wondering, hoping that they loved him just a fraction of what they felt for each other.

It was still painful to see, though; they barely spoke of their love except in unguarded moments, keeping it hidden away like a locket close to their hearts because it could not be anything but a scandal, an outrage to be gossiped of and twisted in the minds of the ignorant. Dolokhov was angry, unspeakably so, that it had to be that way- siblings could not be tolerated as lovers and so instead they were married off, kept apart when possible, or sent off to fight like Anatole had been.


	2. Chapter 2

**1802**

 He had known his rage was impotent, that society was no more likely to accept Anatole and Hélène than they were to accept Dolokhov's own proclivity for both men and women alike, but he remembered the terror in Anatole's eyes when Dolokhov had guessed the identity of the 'girl' he had left behind, years ago now when they were first in the militia together. It had taken weeks for Anatole to even be comfortable speaking of her, and when Dolokhov had finally realised it had to be his sister, his heart had sank for them both. Anatole had begged him not to tell, the first genuine emotion in his voice that Dolokhov had heard from him, and of course he wasn't going to, any more than he would turn himself in for sodomy.

They had fucked that night, and many since, and Dolokhov had slowly fallen for the idiot, spoiled brat of a boy, despite his better judgement.

And then his sister too, when Anatole had taken him to show her off -or as he said, to show _him_ off- a month or so after they’d come back from the army that first time. Dolokhov had left them to it mostly since they’d arrived home, Anatole coming to see him once or twice a week and speaking of her excitedly. He hadn’t wanted to intrude, but Anatole had been most insistent about him meeting her. He spent the weeks beforehand filling in everything he hadn’t been able to tell him in the militia, when it had all been too raw and painful; from how it all started right up until their father sending him away, just to keep them apart because he suspected something but had no proof.

She had smiled at him, guarded in the same way as her brother and just as fake, right up until Anatole had grinned breathlessly and whispered, "he knows everything," into her neck as they embraced lingeringly.

It had been instant, like sunlight breaking through clouds; her face had relaxed into a smile so dazzling and so like Anatole's that he was lost immediately to her, her nose wrinkling and her eyes alive and bright with curiosity. They both looked at him and Anatole smiled encouragingly , but all Dolokhov could see was how they looked askance at each other like nothing else was real.

"So, you're the man who's been fucking my brother," she said finally, no malice in her tone.

Gallantly, he bowed, kissing her hand. "I have indeed had that dubious honour," he grinned at her, winking. "Sadly I fear I am no replacement for your beauty."

She had laughed, a bright noise like expensive crystal- and it was one thing different from her brother, this laugh; his was low and throaty, as though he was embarrassed to use it, and hers rang clear as a bell, polite society honing her skills in deception and make-believe frivolity. The face they made when they laughed was the same, though; when it was _real_ , anyway, both of them with half-closed eyes and grins that mirrored each other with absolute perfection and made his heart ache to see.

God, but they were made for each other. He could see that within moments of meeting her. He had assumed he would dine with them, and then leave them to it- perhaps forever, aware that he was merely an intruder, an interlude between their love; he had no place with them here.


	3. Chapter 3

**1807**

 

He wondered now if she had meant that, or if it had been merely something to soothe him, make him feel better. He appreciated it regardless, the gesture proving they at least had some respect for his emotions. He kissed the top of her head, and then her brother’s, both of them huffing out a laugh against him.

“Shall we actually make it to the bed?” Anatole mumbled, raising an eyebrow at Dolokhov. “What’s the point of having a bed big enough for three if we miss it entirely every time?”

“True,” he agreed, pulling them to their feet and marching them to the bed as though it had been his idea.

 

Hélène had insisted on it; she said she felt terribly squashed between two men in the old bed. Dolokhov had paid for it, and they had decided that Anatole’s house- though small- would be the best place for it to go. It had enough room that Hélène could sleep between them, Anatole and Dolokhov’s arms linked behind her head and their hands on her stomach, without her complaining that they rolled over and tried to kill her in their sleep. It really was a marvelous bed, soft and inviting. Dolokhov always slept magnificently in it, though how much of that was due to the bed and how much was the company, he couldn’t say.

They fell onto it together in a tangle of limbs, and Dolokhov marveled at how soft they both were, how young they still looked when their guard was down. He had to protect them- from what, he wasn’t sure, but it was probably themselves- and a rush of that fierce love washed through him as he was dragged into their wrestling match, like puppies play fighting for all the harm they were doing each other. He found himself pinned on his back by Anatole, Hélène grabbing his wrists and holding them above his head, and stole a kiss from them one after the other, leaving them breathless and laughing. Anatole leaned over and kissed Hélène, and Dolokhov was momentarily blinded with lust as he watched them. Fuck, but they were so perfect together; like two halves of something wondrous that humanity wasn’t supposed to be able to achieve but had somehow managed to piece together within them.

But then they were looking down at him, and his heart leapt again at the fondness on both of their faces that was gone within moments, replaced by Anatole leaning down to hiss in his ear.

“Fuck my beautiful sister, Fedya- I know she loves your cock as much as I do.”

Dolokhov rarely needed to be told anything twice, and he was already hard again; and so he wriggled out from underneath Anatole easily, twisting to give a crooked, wolfish grin to Hélène, who with a glance to her brother, was squirming down the bed onto her back, stretching luxuriously and arching her spine like a satisfied cat. She looked at him with eyes half-lidded just like Anatole’s, and he was lost to her again, grabbing her hips and dragging her towards him roughly. She enjoyed the rough treatment; years of knowing them both had taught him that, and so he snarled at her, dragging her thighs apart and seeing her already wet and ready for him. He dropped his weight to his hands, shoving his cock inside her in one brutal thrust and groaning helplessly at the heat and tightness of her, almost painful in its intensity. He stopped for a moment, breathless and already far too close to the edge, and she smiled wickedly at him and clenched her internal muscles around his cock.

“ _Bitch,”_ he growled, and she wriggled in delight underneath him, urging him on. He grabbed fistfuls of the sheets and began to slam into her, ruthless and merciless. She screamed, wrapping her legs around his waist to pull him in deeper, and he watched her face as he fucked her as hard as he knew how, watched her as no one but Anatole ever saw her, her face open with genuine pleasure and her eyes black with lust.

Anatole pushed at him gently, and Dolokhov grunted, shifting his weight so that Anatole could kneel beside them both. He grabbed his sister’s hair, turning her face to his hard cock and guiding it into her mouth. Dolokhov swore under his breath, slowing his thrusts enough to be able to revel in watching her suck her brother, her eyes open and watching Anatole with a gleam in them which showed exactly how much she enjoyed making him fall apart. Anatole threaded his fingers through her hair, slender, strong fingers that were beautiful to watch, and she hummed around his cock in pleasure, which only made him groan softly and thrust into her mouth. The noise of her brother’s cock sliding out of her mouth was obscene, more so than the act of sucking it had been, and while she licked her lips Anatole moved enough to grab Dolokhov’s chin and lift, forcing his cock into Dolokhov’s mouth with a lazy smile that made his heart stop for a moment. Anatole kept his hand under Dolokhov’s chin, forcing eye contact as he pushed his cock deeper into Dolokhov’s throat until he almost gagged. He regained control and swallowed around Anatole’s cock, making that grin falter as Anatole’s eyes rolled and his mouth fell open a little, those beautiful lips full and flushed. _Fuck, he is as beautiful as her,_ Dolokhov thought, as Anatole pulled back, tousling Dolokhov’s hair like a good dog and returning his cock to his sister’s eager lips. Dolokhov wiped his face with the back of his hand and turned his attention back to fucking Hélène with everything he had, her moans and muffled screams around her brother’s cock spurring him on to even greater savagery until he was slamming into her as hard as he ever had and she was almost crying from it, her legs tight around him and one hand digging painfully into his shoulder. Anatole snaked a hand between their sweat-slick bodies, with ease born of practice, and found his sister’s clit with blinding accuracy. She bucked once, twice, and then she was coming, Anatole shoving his cock deep into her throat and thrusting once before he followed, spilling his seed into his sister’s mouth. Dolokhov watched her swallow, her throat contracting, and came for the second time that day, swearing and pounding into Hélène like an animal.

They fell into an exhausted pile, Hélène throwing the quilt off the bed and shoving both the men away from her. “You both stink.”

“Of you,” Anatole muttered at the same time as Dolokhov huffed, “You love it.” Hélène groaned, exasperated. “Boys.”


	4. Chapter 4

**1802**

 

They hadn’t made him leave that night, though; they had offered him a room to sleep in, which he staggered to exhaustedly at some ungodly hour of the morning, leaving them to their reunion. His head had been spinning with everything that he had seen that night; Hélène sat so close to Anatole that their shoulders were brushing at all times, the strange synchronicity of their movements, seemingly completely innate and not something cultivated. The way they ate in the same manner, took drinks at the same time, laughed at jokes he hadn’t heard them speak out loud. But most of all, he had watched the way they looked at each other, fascinated and – selfishly- sad. His run with Anatole had been good, but he could see that there was nowhere for him now, not with the sly, sideways glances they gave each other when the other wasn’t looking. Anatole’s were simply adoring, his eyes half closed against some blinding light he saw in his sister’s face. Hers were more difficult to read; love, clearly, and relief, but also something much more fragile than in his expressions. Dolokhov got the impression she had accepted they could never be together properly already, a fact Anatole was still struggling with.

He had sank into the bed gratefully, wondering if it was in poor taste to get himself off in someone else’s guest bedroom and doing it anyway with visions of them both in his mind, spilling into his hand and, having nowhere to wipe it, licked his hand clean feeling ashamed- and thankfully relieved. He had fallen asleep quickly after that; a dreamless, deep sleep, but had awoken to find dawn peeking through the curtains and a heavy weight either side of him in the bed.

He cracked an eye open blearily, wondering if Anatole had a dog or something he hadn’t been told about, and was surprised to find Anatole on one side of him and Hélène on the other, their hands linked over his chest and very much asleep.

He had blinked at them in turn, screwing up his face to better clear his vision, but they were still there when he reopened his eyes. Still warm, still pressed against him, and – dear God- both of them naked under the quilt, as naked as he was. The bed was still cool around them; they clearly hadn’t been here very long, and for that he was grateful- he had hoped they would seek each other last night, and it seemed they had before, what? Sleepwalking?- unlikely for them both to do so- to his bed. He pushed back the quilt tentatively, unsure what to do. They were so beautiful; Anatole familiar now, his pale skin smooth, lightly dusted with freckles and unmarred, lean and muscled in a way that pleased Dolokhov with its difference to his own heavier build. Hélène was just as pale, soft and delightfully rounded, no sharp edges on her. In sleep, her face was innocent in a way he suspected she would have been mortified at had she been awake. So was Anatole, his mouth permanently smiling even in his sleep, looking like a small boy now that his eyes were closed.  It was the eyes with them both, Dolokhov decided, that made them wicked and sensual; they had the piercing, intense gaze of a predator, a pair of big cats stalking their prey. He shuddered, a delightful thrill shooting through him at the possibility of that prey being him.

As much as he wanted to reach out and stroke his calloused fingers over the soft curves of their bodies, he had instead coughed delicately, shaking the quilt a little and deliberately fidgeting to try and dislodge them. They had awakened as one, Anatole frowning and grumbling and Hélène stretching luxuriously against Dolokhov with a happy sigh. Then they turned their gaze onto him and he felt suddenly embarrassed to be here, even though it was them who had intruded on his sleep.

“G’morning, Fedya,” Anatole mumbled with a sleepy smile.

“Dolokhov,” Hélène added sweetly, blinking at him and tilting her head.

“You’re in my bed.”

“Indeed,” Hélène agreed amiably, patting him on his head and getting out of the bed with a soft yawn. She wandered, naked, over to the dresser and pulled out a sky blue silk robe. Dolokhov found himself staring absurdly at the little pattern of birds on branches that decorated it as she wrapped herself in it and left, looking so dignified and calm that Dolokhov started to doubt that he was awake at all. He turned back to Anatole, who laughed at him.

“Your face, Dolokhov,” he managed between gasps of breath, “is a picture.” He reached out to Dolokhov’s chin, miming shutting his mouth. Then he grinned at him wolfishly and got out of bed as well, not bothering with a robe. “I expect to see you giving me that slack-jawed expression too,” he threw over his shoulder, but didn’t look back, instead stalking out after his sister and leaving Dolokhov to his thoughts. He realized a minute later that he had indeed been gaping after Anatole as well.

\--


	5. Chapter 5

**1807**

 

They dozed for a while, ignoring the sticky mess they were in for as long as Hélène was able to manage. She lay with her arm draped over Anatole, fingers tracing lazy circles over his shoulder, one leg wrapped around his own, and her back pressed warm against Dolokhov as he lay close behind her, his arm over her waist.

He still found it hard to accept that he was welcome here, with them, even years later. That they referred to him and them as an “us” was even more strange. He was allowed into this little piece of tranquility that they had carved out for themselves; an imperfect scenario where they had to be discreet and clever, where Anatole’s own house was their refuge and where they could only be together like this as long as Hélène’s husband was away- luckily, both he and Hélène managed to find plenty of reasons to be apart, on equally bad terms with each other. Dolokhov only had his mother, his sister- and these two, of course- and therefore he needed to take less care than they did. That didn’t mean he didn’t worry about them both, even when he was travelling or with the army.

His thoughts were interrupted when Hélène leaned back to prod him with her heel, smiling.

“Where are our presents?”

He rolled his eyes and struggled out of the warmth of bed, grabbing his bag and hauling it back to them. It had become a tradition, of sorts; as Dolokhov was away a lot of the time, he brought back trinkets and gifts for the other two, love-gifts, as he thought of it. They ranged from the sublime heights of glittering rubies and diamonds, strings of pearls and unusual weaponry, to the ridiculous lows of a giant German salami for Anatole- (“the size of my cock,”) he had explained helpfully to the baffled boy, with a wink.

At least it had tasted good.

This time, he opened the bag and pulled out a small, square package, wrapped carefully in blue silk and tissue. Handing it to Hélène, he gave a large, less-subtly wrapped bottle to Anatole, the contents sloshing quietly as it exchanged hands.

 

“From China,” he said by way of explanation. “Go on, open.” He gave a quick, wide smile, hiding the usual worry that went along with the gifts he brought back- would they like it? Had he got it completely wrong?

Anatole had the wrapping off his present before Dolokhov had even finished settling back against the headboard. Unsurprisingly, it was alcohol; a large, incredibly expensive and very strong bottle of rice wine, aged and so delicately flavoured that even Dolokhov had almost managed to get drunk on it, he had drank so much.

Anatole, however, was just delighted that it was wine, and a lot of it. He promised to go easy with it, at Dolokhov’s pleading, but he didn’t trust that sunny, guileless smile one little bit and told Anatole so with a laugh.

Hélène unwound the silk from her parcel, and then the tissue, and Dolokhov tensed minutely- Anatole was usually easy; she was harder, her tastes more difficult to read.

For a man who cared very little for many things, he felt very deeply for the few people he loved, and to disappoint one of them was unthinkable. The fact that he could count these people on one hand made it more important.

Hélène gasped, bringing his attention back. She was staring at her gift with an unreadable expression. Dolokhov stopped breathing for a moment until she broke out in a wide, genuine smile.

“Oh, Dolokhov,” she said quietly. It was an intricate hair ornament, delicately worked in silver and gold; with flower petals swirling in loops and spirals, each one flashing blue with kingfisher feathers that had been painstakingly applied piece by piece. Each petal was tipped with an embellishment of gold. Dolokhov had searched for days to find the perfect one; one that was delicate and light enough to allow Hélène to wear it, but unusual enough that she would not have seen anything like it anywhere.

 

She put it on immediately, craning her neck to look in the mirror beside the bed and beaming at her reflection. “It’s beautiful,” she declared, Anatole nodding at her in the mirror. She took it out and carefully placed it onto the dresser before throwing her arms around Dolokhov’s neck.

Anatole already had his bottle open and was drinking straight from it, the kiss he gave Dolokhov messy and wine-laced. “I said go easy on that,” he scolded with a wry smile, wrapping an arm around each of them. “I am,” Anatole drawled, clearly already warm and pliant from the alcohol. “See? I only drank a little.” Dolokhov sighed.

After a quiet moment, Anatole raised his head from Dolokhov’s chest and gave Hélène a sideways glance and a smile. Helene returned the look and nodded a little, and Dolokhov, as he often did, got the impression that they were having a conversation only they could hear.

It was Anatole who spoke, turning his gaze to Dolokhov and smiling.

“We got you something,” he said lazily, his eyes half-lidded. He said it as though it was completely normal, boring even; but Dolokhov blinked at him, then at Hélène, not quite sure he had heard right. They had never, in all of their times together, bought him _anything._ He had assumed they were just too used to being spoiled, too selfish to think of it, and hadn’t minded; he enjoyed spoiling them further, feeling guilty he was so often not there to look out for them. He enjoyed feeling as though he contributed something to them that they didn’t already have.

“You did?” he asked cautiously, eyes flicking between them. “It isn’t my nameday, is it?” Hélène rolled over, leaning to open the top drawer of the dresser. Anatole shrugged at him. “No. Why not? You get us things all the time, and you know, you’re one of us, eh? So why shouldn’t we?” He sounded defensive by the end of his sentence, side-eyeing Dolokhov with the faint smirk that he recognized as his “uncomfortable with emotion” expression. Dolokhov shrugged back in an attempt at nonchalance, singing inwardly. _One of us._

Hélène rolled back towards them, holding a long, thin package wrapped in grey furs. She dropped it unceremoniously onto his lap and leaned back against the headboard so she could watch him. Disentangling his arms from his lovers, he stared down the package as you would a wild animal, unmoving.

“The _fur_ isn’t the present,” Anatole drawled, amused and kissing Dolokhov’s shoulder. “You do need to actually open it.”

Hélène laughed and draped an arm across Dolokhov’s back so she could touch them both.

“Yes, of course,” he said after a moment, unwrapping the fur with suddenly trembling hands. Even the fur was beautiful; soft and grey and dappled with white, wolf perhaps. But when he finally reached his present, his fingers stopped, hovering above it in a terrified panic that he could somehow break it despite knowing it was impossible.

It was a sword; a sabre very much like his own but so completely different as to be almost unrecognizable as the same thing. It shone, for one thing; the scabbard new and gleaming without a spot of rust or fleck of dirt on the gold or the leather. The grip was black leather and wood, wound with gilded swirls in intricate patterns, the guard a shining, unmarked gold, not a nick to be seen. The only other decoration was on the pommel, three Russian letters engraved in a curled, flowing pattern hardly recognizable as letters to a casual observer. Dolokhov leaned in, squinting at them, and finally understood; they were a H surrounded by an A and an F, one on each side.

“You can pick it up,” Hélène whispered conspiratorially, her eyes flashing in merriment.

He ran his fingertips over the scabbard reverentially before picking it up, unsheathing the sabre in a long, smooth stroke and enjoying the weight of it in his hand. The sword itself was just as beautiful as the sheath; gleaming steel with an edge so keen he could barely see it. He was aware he should bluster, make light of this- perhaps swing it around a little and laugh, anything to stop the tightness in his throat and the hitch in his breath- but all he could do was swallow and smile at them silently.

The weight was perfect; exactly like his own sword, perhaps even a shade heavier which was lovely, the steel solid and _good_ in his hand. It felt as much a part of him as his last one, except that this was thousands of rubles more than he could ever justify paying for one when his mother and sister depended on him.

“We stole yours when you were gone,” Anatole said as though answering a question Dolokhov hadn’t asked. “To get it right.” Though his eyes still shone with amusement, he hesitated. “It _is_ right, isn’t it?”

“It’s-“ Dolokhov paused, unable to think of a word that adequately expressed what he thought, or how he felt towards the two of them. _Do not cry,_ he scolded himself.

“-Magnificent,” he finished- lamely, he thought, but clearly they both heard the rest in his voice anyway, heard the roughness and the dry swallowing of his throat. “Thank you.”

It occurred to him that this was the first gift- real gift- he’d been given in his entire adult life. His family were too poor, and his “friends” not really friends when it came down to it.

“Well, we know you like to fight,” Hélène smiled, not looking at him directly. “So of course, it seemed perfectly natural to enable you.  Besides, your other one was practically falling apart, you’ve had it so long.”

“And the letters on it?” he had to ask, hoping he knew the significance of them.

“Silly Fedya,” she laughed. She so rarely used his first name that it still sent shivers through him. “We wanted to remind you of us while you were off being terribly fierce.”

“But my initial is on it too.”

 “You didn’t think we would leave you out, after all that?”

Dolokhov smiled.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**1802**

 

He had trailed after them eventually, after dozing comfortably for another hour or so. Conscious of disturbing them, he made his way loudly to the dining room, coughing or knocking at every threshold.

He found them eating breakfast at a table clearly designed to take parties, and hesitated before stepping into the room, feeling their personal space as a bubble that firmly began at the door.

“Come on,” Anatole called, gesturing with a fork to the table and then at Dolokhov. “We left you a plate.” The bubble seemed to allow him in as he stepped forward.

Anatole looked relaxed, his hair messy and uncombed, his shirt loose and half-unbuttoned. Dolokhov couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen him look so… _young,_ and carefree. They had clearly spent that hour he was dozing most industriously.

And her- oh, she was beautiful, though ‘beautiful’ seemed a paltry word for her at that moment. Her hair, loose and dark like Anatole’s, but long, gently curling. Her eyes, so deep and full of fire, her skin, so pale in the morning light. It struck him again how alike they were, and it unnerved him at the same time as a shudder of suppressed arousal ran through him at the thought of them both on their knees before him. _Stop it._

She offered him a flash of a smile as he took his seat. There was far too much food on the table- bread, boiled eggs, various cuts of cold meat, even some cheeses and some porridge, which he ignored- so he set about helping himself to a good selection, beginning to eat while keeping half an eye on them both.

“So,” Anatole said at length, leaning back on his chair with a lump of bread in his hand, “What are your plans today, Dolokhov?”

In truth, he had no idea. He was going to visit his mother the next day, but today had been unexpected and he had nowhere to be. But they both had him in their gaze now, and he could do nothing but shrug as he shoved more eggs into his mouth. He was so hungry.

“That settles it, then,” Hélène said, glancing between them. “You can stay here.”

“I don’t think-“ Dolokhov hesitated. “Don’t you both want-?”

“Privacy?” Hélène laughed. “Time alone? I would say yes, but it seems you’ve already become quite acquainted with my brother. He’s told me all sorts of things about you.” She raked her gaze over him in the way he had done to so many men and women in the past, and then sniffed disdainfully.

_Told you what, exactly? That we fucked? Or that I held him when he missed you at night; listened to his bitter ranting about how unfair it was, pretended I didn’t see his tears because he wanted so badly to pretend he was too old to care; and stayed silent while he told me things about you that he’d clearly been desperate to tell someone, anyone- about your smile that looked so much like his, about how you always smell like him in the morning, about how you hum to yourself in the bath and sing to yourself when you think he’s not listening. About how you’d told him you saw his face when you’d played the mirror game as a child and knew it was meant to be._

“I, however, am immune to your… bestial charms,” she had said, interrupting his thoughts. “I think you’re filthy, and poor, and a ruffian. A scoundrel, even- why,” she had continued, warming to her subject as Anatole smirked, “you’re no better than a dog, a perfect beast. I cannot see what my brother saw in you at all.”

Her words stung, but the curiously soft, smiling way she said them lessened the blow, her eyes fixed on his. A small, daintier version of the lazy smirk her brother habitually wore spread across her face, and Dolokhov felt himself grow hot under her scrutiny. If he didn’t know better, he would think she was flirting with him.

 _Two can play that game._ He drew himself up and with a gallant air and wolfish grin, he replied, “My dear princess. As your brother can attest, I may _look_ like an animal, but I assure you, I fuck like- no, wait. You’re right; I do fuck like an animal as well. I’m prepared to give demonstrations.”

Hélène looked positively delighted that he’d dared to say fuck to her, her eyes half closing appreciatively.  “Why, how wildly inappropriate you are, Dolokhov. How disgusting. I ought to throw you out.”

“I ought to throw you over the table,” he said without thinking, his brain momentarily confusing her for Anatole. He stopped, wincing internally, but Anatole laughed and slammed the table with a fist. Hélène sniffed again, her pretense at disgust marred by the wicked gleam in her eyes. “How perfectly vile.”

They hadn’t actually fucked, that day. They had lounged around and traded insults instead, Dolokhov falling further into their spell with every hour until he could barely remember which of them he had loved first. The tension between himself and Hélène was delicious and palpable, Dolokhov enjoying the feeling of wanting what he could not have.

He also enjoyed the free way they were around him; he had the impression from even such a short time that they were constantly hovering at the periphery of each other; almost but not quite touching in public. He knew from Anatole that their father had warned them several times to stop being so close in society, even after he had returned from the army – ‘or people will talk’ – and so they had tried to restrain themselves though it pained them.

But with him, they lay sprawled across each other’s laps, legs and arms touching at all times. He would press a kiss to her shoulder, her neck, and she would lean back and smile with her eyes closed, allowing herself to feel it and enjoy it. Dolokhov tried very hard not to think about fucking them both, about how beautiful they would look fucking each other, and only partially managed.

It was with distinct sadness that he said his goodbyes that night, hesitating over Anatole because he didn’t know if this was _it­_ \- the goodbye he had dreaded since meeting Hélène and knowing he could never compete.

Awkwardly, he pulled Anatole into a hug, kissing his cheek and breathing in the clean scent of him that was now laced with his sister’s, as it should be.

“Goodbye, _mon cher,_ ” he said roughly as he pulled back. “I wish you both every happiness.”

Anatole looked confused. “You’ll be back, though?” he asked, his eyes narrowing in consternation. “Why are you saying that?”

Now Dolokhov looked confused. His heart gave a lurching leap in his chest and he licked his lips as he tried to reply. “You and Hélène are-“ he did not add _in love,_ because Anatole refused to use that word.

“We are.”

“So, I’ll leave you both to your happiness. I don’t want to intrude.”

“Maybe we’d like you to intrude occasionally,” Hélène said without looking away from Anatole. “Don’t be a stranger, Dolokhov.” She flicked her eyes from Anatole to Dolokhov and back again, and then left the room discreetly.

Anatole kissed him soundly on the lips, lingering with his forehead pressed to Dolokhov’s. “Isn’t she something?” he breathed. “Come back here when you get back?”

Dolokhov had nodded mutely and then left, somewhat dazed and unsure as to whether he should be hopeful or not.


	7. Chapter 7

**1807**

 

It was all well and good, though, to acknowledge how much Anatole and Hélène loved each other. It was obvious to anyone with a bit of sense and the will to really watch them. Even if they never said it to each other- and he despaired at that, he really did, why on Earth would you not tell the person you loved how you felt?- it was evident in every move they made, the eternal dance they were moving to , the music they spun to inaudible to anyone else. Sometimes Dolokhov fancied he caught the strains of the melody as if from far away, drifting from their hearts to his.

And he _did_ know why they didn’t say it, they could never say it, and in a way it was beautiful and poetic and tragic in a way that spoke to Dolokhov’s whimsical soul. They could never _have_ each other, and it hurt less to pretend even when they couldn’t lie to themselves. It hurt just watching them.

But it was another thing entirely to try and figure out how they felt about _him._ He was musing on that first meeting now, lost in memories and trying to piece together any clues he had, and it was pathetic in fact that he was even trying- he had so much, so much with the both of them, why would he dig and potentially ruin it all for the sake of a few words?

_Because you love them, would die for them, and it’s terrifying not knowing that they know._

He held the sword in his hands, his eyes drifting again and again to the letters on the pommel.  That had to mean they felt something for him, surely.

He wished everything was simpler, simple enough to just ask without being afraid of the answer. Without wondering if he would hear an awkward pause, an obvious lie. They never doubted each other, but they were siblings, people who knew each other best in the whole world. He was just an outsider, a poor, uneducated fool who happened to have a knack for hauling himself up inch by inch in the world.

In the years between them meeting and now, Dolokhov had witnessed them both deal with the threat of separation and marriage- Helene marrying Pierre two years ago had nearly driven him to murder, his rage silent and almost physically _visible_ in the air around him. It was a fury that Dolokhov hoped never to have directed at himself.

Anatole had been forced to behave before and during the ceremony; sullen and silent, he had barely lifted his eyes from the floor for the whole thing, and therefore missed the sideways glance Hélène sent his way. But afterwards, when Pierre and his new wife- and how it pained even Dolokhov to use that word- had retired for the evening, presumably to the wedding bed, Anatole had gone home and completely destroyed it. Systematically, thoroughly, and silently, he went from room to room, ripping furniture apart like it was matchsticks, throwing glasses and china, hitting and kicking and throwing anything he could reach with his bare hands. He didn’t stop until everything he could touch was ruined, and his hands were bleeding and bruised. He stopped as silently as he had begun, his chest heaving with the effort ; and then in a calm, flat voice, he turned to Dolokhov.

“Drink?”

They hadn’t spoken of it since, Anatole preferring to pretend that he didn’t care. Dolokhov had paid for the repairs from some winnings he had made at cards, so that Anatole didn’t have to explain himself. Truthfully, the marriage didn’t change much about his and Hélène’s relationship, but Anatole himself was different, somehow. It was as though he had finally given up a fight he had been in for years. Dolokhov watched helplessly from the sidelines as Anatole’s hope that he and Hélène could ever be together properly died a final and permanent death. This acceptance was something that Hélène had arrived at years before, first grieving for the impossible and then moving on in her typically matter-of-fact fashion, but Anatole had always struggled with it, unable to understand why it was, exactly, that it was wrong.

But, through everything, they had never wavered as far as Dolokhov could see; no “should we do this,” or “we can’t,” just “how can we do this,” and silent love like he had never seen before. It was strange, how Anatole, despite his actions and his words, was naïve beyond belief. That was part of the reason that Dolokhov felt they had to be protected.

The sword had warmed in his hands by the time he was roused from his musings, Hélène looking askance at him. “Are you quite well, or do you need a veterinarian?”

He grinned back at her, not meeting her eyes. “Just thinking.”

“Well, don’t exhaust yourself. We’re not done with you yet.”

Reluctantly, he wrapped up the sabre and put it aside before pulling them both to him. “I don’t know,” he sighed, mock exhausted. “I’m not sure I can go again.”

“You’ll manage,” Anatole said.

“It will be an effort, but I’ll pull through,” he agreed, looking pained but noble. But he couldn’t hold the expression for long, a smile breaking through that quickly turned into a laugh. “Alright. Have your wicked way with me.”

“Well actually,” Hélène said softly as she moved to straddle him, “You both will be having your wicked way with me.”

“Oh, really?” Dolokhov breathed, looking up at Hélène with his eyes dark and a savage smile on his face.  She graced him with a look from under half-lidded lashes, stretching herself above him to make sure he got a good, long look. His hands roamed her soft curves, settling into the dip of her hips as she leaned forward to press herself flush against him, glancing back to Anatole with a half-smile. Dolokhov heard the sound of a bottle being opened and the glug of liquid spilling out , but saw nothing other than Hélène biting her lip with a little, sharp exhale, her eyes closing and her brow furrowing. She wriggled back a little, a quiet noise of pleasure escaping her, and rolled her hips slowly, clearly enjoying Anatole’s preparations. Dolokhov felt cool, sticky liquid drip onto his thighs from her, could feel Anatole’s weight heavy on his legs as he worked his fingers inside his sister’s ass, and was mesmerized by Hélène’s little gasps and moans, leaning up to kiss her hungrily, impatient and hard. She smiled, leaned back a little, and with another glance to Anatole, she lifted herself up smoothly, bracing her arms on Dolokhov’s chest, and sank down onto his cock with a muttered “fuck,” that almost undid him. He groaned at the hot wetness of her cunt, forcing himself not to move as Anatole moved behind her. She leaned forward again, arms on either side of Dolokhov, and he watched in something like awe as her brother pushed inside her other hole, agonizingly slowly, it felt to him. She held her breath, her eyes squeezed shut until he was fully inside her, and Dolokhov could feel his cock so close to his own, could feel how tight and full she was. Then she let out a long, sighing breath that was almost a moan, and opened her eyes with a lazy, victorious smile. “Are you going to just lie there, or were you planning to fuck me?” she said to the room at large, and Dolokhov grabbed at her hips tight enough to bruise as Anatole began to thrust, slow and deep, Dolokhov trying to match his pace. It was pure sensory overload; Hélène’s breath on his face, her moans and her almost laughs of pleasure warm against his neck; the feeling of Anatole’s cock inside her, so close to his, the friction delicious and intoxicating, knowing they were both filling her up so completely, all together, all one creature without beginning or end; the sounds of Anatole’s breathing and the slaps of skin against skin, and his own pleasure, the arousal pooling in him like fire, building relentlessly. He watched as Anatole’s right hand snaked around to her clit, his other firm on her shoulder, his nails digging in as tightly as Dolokhov’s own. Anatole looked beautiful from what he could see over her shoulder; his face open and vulnerable in the heat of the moment, his eyes black with lust and half-opened, his mouth twisted in a silent snarl. Hélène leaned back, arching to give Anatole better access, and the sudden sharp “ _Oh,”_ was all the indication Anatole needed that he was in the right place. He began to thrust harder, brutally slamming into her, and it was all Dolokhov could do to keep up, feeling as though he couldn’t possibly last any longer but somehow holding back so he could keep seeing this, could keep feeling like he was part of the most amazing thing he had ever known; and then Hélène was screaming, not words but a shuddering wail of ecstasy, grabbing onto Dolokhov’s shoulders with fierce hands like claws and dragging him with her, pulling him over the edge so he was spilling inside her, swearing and half-blinded. He dimly heard Anatole groan, felt his thrusts stutter and still, but he could do nothing but lie under them both, gasping for breath and feeling almost sick with the intensity of it all.

Hélène rolled off after a few minutes of silence, wincing but happy, and Anatole dropped down beside Dolokhov with a self-satisfied grin on his face, patting him on the chest before rolling onto his face and groaning softly into the pillows. Dolokhov lay there feeling somewhat shell-shocked- a common emotion after having both of them at once, like it was just too much Kuragin to handle and left him exhausted and desperate for more at the same time.

 

 

Later, Dolokhov swindled them both at cards, gleefully goading them until they each owed him ten thousand rubles that he would never take from them. Their faces were gold in the candlelight, the darkness creeping in around the room comforting and familiar.

“Dolokhov, why do you always cheat so abominably?” Hélène tutted with a smile. He had long since stopped being angry when they called him a cheat; they didn’t mean it any more than he meant it when he called her a whore.

“It’s just part of my roguish charm,” he said breezily, shuffling the deck again. “Care to play on, or are you scared you’ll lose?”

“Ugh.” She gave him a side eyed glance and then nodded. “20 rubles on the Ace.”

The final sum they owed him was ludicrous; more money, in fact, than Dolokhov would ever have seen at one time. He knew he would see some of it; the two of them were generous hosts when the mood took them, and they would never leave him short. The rest didn’t matter.

Anatole got steadily more drunk as the evening went on, his rice wine diminishing at an alarming rate despite Dolokhov repeatedly telling him to slow down. Eventually, he fell asleep at the table, smiling benignly.

“We should leave him there and go fuck without him,” Hélène sighed, prodding him. “That would teach him a lesson.”

“We can’t just leave him,” Dolokhov sighed. “It’s freezing down here.”

“I am _not_ hauling my unconscious brother all the way up those stairs.”

“I’ll do it.” Dolokhov got his arms under Anatole and hauled him onto his shoulder, a warm, dead weight.

“He looks like a swooning damsel,” Hélène laughed as she followed him up the stairs, not even attempting to help.

“Does that make me the brave knight?” He grunted and shifted Anatole’s weight a little. Fuck, he was heavier than he looked.

“It makes you the _dragon_. Really, Fedya, don’t aim above your station.”

\--


	8. Chapter 8

**1802**

 

He had returned, of course; as if he could stay away, curiosity and some weird hope needing to be satisfied. Returning from visiting his mother, he stopped by Anatole’s house; it was near the barracks anyway, so not much out of his way.

“Dolokhov!” Anatole greeted him delightedly, throwing himself bodily at Dolokhov in a huge hug. “You came back!” He allowed himself to be enveloped in Anatole’s arms, closing his eyes against the familiar scent and warmth. He had missed it, if he was honest. He wasn’t sure how ready he was to just walk away.

“Oh look, I see the stray puppy returned to us,” Hélène said, arriving in Dolokhov’s field of vision. He was unsurprised that she was here; it seemed she spent as much time as possible with him. She looked beautiful; a silky red dress clinging to her in all the right places, mirroring Anatole’s red waistcoat- unconsciously? Her hair was artfully tumbled across her shoulders in a way that suggested it had taken hours, her eyes dark in the candlelight. Dolokhov turned to her, wondering how to read her expression, but she merely smiled and extended her hand for him to kiss. He did so, flushing slightly under her gaze. Then she swept away out of reach, seating herself daintily and lifting her wine as though he had been there all day. Anatole wrapped an arm around his shoulders and walked with him to the table, grinning like the cat that got the cream.  Dolokhov had hesitated before sitting down, wary of getting in the way, but Anatole’s warmth next to him and his easy affection in the presence of Hélène reassured him enough to do so. Certainly she didn’t seem upset by Anatole’s slightly possessive air, if anything finding it amusing. Anatole poured him a drink.

“So, how is your mother?”

Dolokhov winced as he took a long swallow, toying with the glass as he thought how best to reply.

“She is…quite well,” he settled for, with a slight tilt of the head. Anatole knew of the poverty his family lived in, somewhat, but he wasn’t about to enlighten Hélène as well, nor go into more detail than necessary. It was a constant source of burning shame in him, mingled strangely and inexplicably with a fierce, white hot pride of his family and of how they managed regardless. He did not wish for pity, or for ridicule, and his mother’s ill health was not something he was ready to talk to Hélène about.

“And your sister?”

“Still managing,” he said carefully. Anatole seemed to sense the reticence and looked abashed for a moment. “Sorry, Fedya- it’s only Hélène, I didn’t mean-“

“It’s quite alright,” he said, wishing Anatole would just drop it. Hélène looked between them and then poured more wine silently, before changing the subject. Dolokhov had never been more glad of small talk about the weather.

Hélène seemed to warm to him again throughout the evening, trading insults as though they had known each other for years, Anatole smiling at them both in turn like a child at Christmas. The wine flowed and the conversation grew more risqué as Anatole got steadily more drunk.

“And did you know that Fedya can do this _thing_ with his tongue-“ Anatole waggled his own in what Dolokhov felt to be a very poor interpretation of it- “That makes your legs shake like you’re having a stroke-“

“That’s hardly a compliment, dear boy,” Dolokhov objected half seriously. “I don’t usually aim for stroke victim when I’m fucking someone.”

“I meant it in a _good_ way,” Anatole protested blearily.

“I don’t think there’s a good way to have a stroke, Anatole,” Hélène sighed. “Although I’m perfectly willing to be proven otherwise,” she added with a sly smile at Dolokhov. He grinned at her even though his heart skipped a beat, once again reminding him of the image of the both of them at his feet, naked and beautiful. “I’m sure I could oblige.”

“Someday,” she said, -promised?- and went back to insults. “But not with such a vile ruffian as yourself, of course. It would be like having sex with the family pet.”

“You sound like one with experience in such things,” he replied.

“Oh, don’t speak of Anatole like that, the poor boy is right there,” she laughed, looking mock-scandalized.  Anatole smiled at her with such utter adoration that Dolokhov forgot to breathe, instantly wondering if he should do this, if he should carry on with this whole strange affair. They didn’t need him. Anatole didn’t need him, not when he had her.

He half-stood, unsure as to when he had done so but beginning to think he should leave. “I-“

But Anatole tugged at his arm, pulled him back down into his seat, frowning in confusion. “Where are you going? We have a bed set up for you. It’s too late to go back home tonight.”

Hélène shrugged when Dolokhov glanced at her. “It’s all the same to me. Shall we play cards?”

Dolokhov smiled viciously, a gleam in his eye. “I think that’s a splendid idea.” But Anatole groaned. “Hélène, I already owe him a thousand rubles, I don’t think-“

“Nonsense,” Hélène said, handing Dolokhov the deck. She had a small, secret smile on her face that should have warned Dolokhov of something up her sleeve, but he carried on regardless. “Well, if you both feel the need to owe me rubles, who am I to deny you of the pleasure?”

Two hours later, Dolokhov had been reeling with shock, Hélène having somehow beaten him to the tune of three thousand and fifty rubles (and Anatole too, to a lesser extent.) She gave him a smug, challenging look. She hadn’t even been _cheating;_ Dolokhov knew how to cheat and she had done nothing even faintly suspicious except beat him at a game he was very rarely bested at. He leaned back against his chair and blew out a long, wounded breath, before nodding to her, without any soreness. “You, my dear Princess, are an astonishing woman. Congratulations.” He held out a hand for her to shake just as he would any man who could beat him, and she took it firmly, a barely suppressed grin on her face. He reached into his bag without preamble, and counted out the money before offering her it with a smile.

There was a moment where she looked at the money, and then at him, and he could see her calculating whether he could afford it or not. He couldn’t, of course- that was almost all he had in the world right at that moment, after giving his mother most of what he had earned- but his stubborn pride would not let him say as much, and he merely kept her gaze steadily. _Please, just take it, don’t shame me-_ he thought. After what was in reality only moments, she took the proffered notes and tucked them away in a drawer, and Dolokhov felt some strange passing of respect between them. Certainly, she looked at him a little differently after that.

She turned to Anatole and raised her eyebrow. “I’ll owe you?” he said in a tone which suggested he owed her frequently. She sighed and shook her head. “Typical.” Rising, she smoothed down her dress and looked to Anatole. “Come along. Goodnight then, Dolokhov. You can find your way to the room from last time, I assume?”

He nodded dumbly, amused by how quickly Anatole followed her after a quick kiss for Dolokhov and an apologetic smile. But when they’d left the room, he felt suddenly cold and very alone, glancing around the table in the silence that fell. He drained his glass and was debating taking the rest of the bottle to bed when he heard hushed voices outside the room. A moment later, Hélène’s head appeared around the door. “Are you coming?”

“What?”

“Hurry up, it’s cold tonight.” She gave him a pointed glance and disappeared. Dolokhov stood mechanically, following her to the door where she was waiting with Anatole. He trailed after them like a stray dog, all the way up the stairs to their bedroom where he hovered at the doorway, indecisive.

They had no such hesitation, stripping off with a familiarity that was at once playful and teasing, speaking of years of sharing a bed. She draped her dress elegantly over a chair and he tossed his waistcoat, shirt, breeches and boots behind him haphazardly before climbing into bed beside his sister and swearing at the cold. “Get your feet off me,” she complained, shoving him. “They’re freezing.”

Dolokhov was still stood in the door, suddenly awkward again. They were so beautiful, so young and lithe and soft; each curve of their bodies perfect and made to fit together in a way his wasn’t. He wasn’t a self-conscious man; he knew many women – and men – found him attractive, knew that he was made in a pleasing way; but he couldn’t help wondering if he would be out of place between them.

“Dolokhov,” Hélène called, exasperated. “Come in or go out, shut the door behind you, and make a decision- it’s cold and I’m tired.” Anatole looked up from where he was snuggled against her. “Come _on,_ Fedya.”

He stepped into the room as though awakening from a trance, undressing slowly and dropping everything to the floor in a pile neater than Anatole’s. Anatole and Hélène moved over for him as he got into bed, Anatole in the middle and looking remarkably pleased about it. The bed was warming up nicely, and even though it was a little cramped with them all in it, it was more comfortable than Dolokhov would have imagined. 

“Thank God for that,” Hélène sighed with a smile and a sideways glance to him. “I thought you were going to stand there watching us all night. Anatole, stop wriggling.” Anatole grunted and wriggled some more, getting himself firmly wedged between them with an arm over his sister and his back snuggled tight against Dolokhov. Dolokhov moved closer, putting an arm under Anatole’s head for him, and Anatole sighed in contentment. From here, Dolokhov’s hand brushed Hélène’s shoulder, and she moved a little nearer with a hum of pleasure as he brushed his fingertips over her soft skin, a thrill of arousal shooting through him at this first touch of her naked body.

“Fuck!”

Anatole’s feet were against his leg, and God, they _were_ freezing. Anatole laughed and moved slightly, and Hélène groaned, rolling her head back against the pillow. “Really, Anatole. I was just enjoying that.”

“Sorry, sister,” Anatole said, completely unrepentant, and Dolokhov grinned at them both.

“Goodnight, Dolokhov.” She put out the lights and got herself comfortable with a huff of pretend irritation.

“Goodnight, Princess.”

“G’Night, Fedya.”

“Goodnight, Anatole.” Dolokhov could almost have laughed at the absurdity of this conversation.

 “Sister,” he heard Anatole mutter sweetly to Hélène, and smiled in the darkness at her whispered, “Brother, darling,” in reply.


	9. Chapter 9

**1807**

 

The next day, Dolokhov left them to it and went to visit his mother, returning only in the evening a few days later because Pierre was back from business and Hélène had to go and pretend to be the dutiful wife for the night. If left alone, Anatole would be moody and unpredictable, as likely to get drunk and into a fight as he was to sit at home and brood. It didn’t suit him. Anatole’s nature was sunny and carefree, and the black cloud hanging over him when his sister was with her _husband_ was strange and painful to see. It was especially bad when they’d been together for a while uninterrupted, as they had been these last few weeks. So Dolokhov travelled back, determined to at least keep him company.

He was struck as he always was by the sheer difference between them as he pulled up to the house. This was a “small” house to Anatole and Hélène; a mere trifle that their father had given Anatole as a way of, presumably, getting rid of him. But to Dolokhov’s eyes, this place would have expanded his mother and sister’s living space at least tenfold, would have given them a roof that didn’t leak in winter, windows that didn’t rattle in the March winds, and perhaps the means to start scraping their way up from the bottom.  His mother’s house was cold, wet, cramped, and permanently in a state of disarray due to her ill health. He gave everything he could, and they still could barely heat it sufficiently.

This house- this was luxury. Dolokhov didn’t bother announcing himself, but smiled at the servant who greeted him pleasantly, as was his usual custom. No need to treat them like dogs. He was working on teaching the other two to at least _acknowledge_ people working for them. It made his skin crawl to see the way people treated servants as though they weren’t human. He was far too used to being looked at like that in polite company, knew they whispered about his “low means” behind his back.

Anatole was slouched on the sofa with a bottle of wine in his hand, staring blankly at the wall. He didn’t look up when Dolokhov arrived, only noticing him when he dropped onto the sofa beside him and took the bottle from his hand gently.

“What do you think you’re doing, eh?” Anatole scowled, glancing up to him.

“I’m here to visit you,” Dolokhov smiled cheerily, putting the bottle out of Anatole’s reach.

“I don’t want you.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“She’s with _him.”_ There was a dangerous note to his voice that Dolokhov knew only too well, and he sighed. “Anatole, you can’t do anything. I know, I know-“ he said, raising his hands as Anatole glared at him, “-but you _know_ there’s nothing for it, eh? You can’t just turn up and duel him – what would that look like? Challenging him because he’s married to your sister?”

Anatole groaned, defeated, and then flashed a sly smile at Dolokhov. “I don’t have to challenge him. I could just kill him.”

“He was your friend,” Dolokhov pointed out. “Still is, as far as he knows. He’s not a bad fellow, really-“

Anatole huffed out a breath.

“-And it’s not like she’s, y’know-“

“Dolokhov, can you just stop, eh? You’re really not helping any more than that wine was.” Dolokhov inclined his head in acknolwedgment. He took a moment to look at Anatole properly, take in the glazed look in his eyes and the listless way he was slouched across the furniture, and sighed. “Anatole, darling.”

“Stop.”

“Fight me.”

“Eh?”

“Come on. I want to try out this new sabre. Come fight me. Any room you like.” He grinned at Anatole wolfishly, the kind of smile that Anatole knew meant mischief and couldn’t usually resist. He saw a flicker of interest in the other man’s eyes, a twitch of a smile hidden quickly, and pressed on. “What, you scared to fight me? Eh? Come on, my boy-“ knowing perfectly well that Anatole hated being called a boy- “Come and take a beating from your elder, if you dare.” Anatole huffed out a long suffering breath and got up, feigning disinterest while his eyes glinted with the challenge.

“Alright, old man,” he said with a look that raked over Dolokhov obscenely. “I’ll fetch the swords. We fight in here.” He left the room, and Dolokhov set abut shoving furniture and tables aside, whistling to himself in pleasure at his clever plan. He knew Anatole had to get his frustration out somehow, rather than having it turn inwards and eat him away from the inside out, bit by bit like a rot. A fight was the best way to do it; he was safe enough with Dolokhov, and it stopped him storming out and killing Pierre on the spot for no good reason.

 _He has every reason,_ he reminded himself, feeling his own pang of jealousy at the thought of her with Pierre. He had no right to be possessive, but that had never stopped him, not for years now.

Anatole returned and threw him his new sabre, the beautiful sword still taking his breath away. It slid from its scabbard in one long, smooth stroke, well oiled and shining, and he turned it to the light, pleased and proud of it. Meanwhile, Anatole was shaking himself, trying to lose the fog of wine he had been accumulating before Dolokhov had arrived.

“You ready, old man?” Anatole said finally, clearly tired of waiting for him.

“I am. Come at me.” He bared his teeth in vicious pleasure at the fight to come, fixing his eyes on Anatole.

Anatole’s lazy smile disappeared in an instant, his focus narrowing to Dolokhov and his sword ready. He came at him silently and with barely checked fury, his sabre a blur. He wasted no time in backing Dolokhov up to a wall, his attacks constant and savage, barely giving Dolokhov time to react. Dolokhov said nothing, parrying and deflecting the blows as Anatole rained them on him, the fight turning palpably dangerous in mere minutes. Anatole was snarling silently, breathing heavily in short, hard gasps. Dolokhov could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears. He twisted aside, ducking under a vicious swing from Anatole and pushing away from the wall. Anatole wasn’t checking his attacks; he was out of control and fighting with the ruthless single-mindedness that Dolokhov had always admired in him. Anatole became a formidable opponent when he was _truly_ riled, his only aim to hurt the person who was hurting him. He had absolutely no thought for any lasting consquences; barely even registered that he would likely kill the man. To him, it was pure reaction to a wound, whether it was mental or physical; and he was clearly hurting like hell right now. Dolokhov set about trying to parry, block, or defend himself from the savage thrusts  rather than actually spar, not wanting to injure him. But Anatole had noticed, and wasn’t satisfied.

“Fight me, damn you!” Anatole heaved out, wiping his forehead with a sleeve.

“You’re going to get hurt,” Dolokhov pointed out, licking his lips. Anatole shrugged. “So? Hurt me if you can.” With a feral grin, he lunged forward suddenly, past Dolokhov’s guard, and nicked him on the shoulder, blood running down his arm almost instantly. Dolokhov didn’t even look at the wound, barely feeling it, but his instinct kicked in and he parried Anatole’s next thrust easily, twisting to launch a flurry of quick attacks back at him with efficient, quick strokes. Anatole’s face lit up. “Better, old man!” That was the last they said for a while, the fight becoming serious on both sides as Dolokhov, using all of his self-control, began to attack rather than just defending himself. Blow after blow rang against Anatole’s sabre, the younger man completely lost in the push and pull of the fight where Dolokhov was calculating, careful and well-practised, his movements smooth and flowing now that he had found the rhythm.  They fought for several minutes in silence, the only sounds the ringing of steel and the harsh gasps ofbreath.

“This doesn’t help her, you know,” Dolokhov panted finally.

“Shut up, eh-“

“No. He’s her husband, and she has to spend time with him, and if she has to sleep with him then-“

“I said, shut _up.”_ Anatole gave a particularly vicious thrust followed by a low, sweeping slash, and Dolokhov barely managed to jump out of the way. The words hurt his heart to say, but Anatole was still holding something back, something black and rotten inside him that needed to come out like a tumour. This was the only way Dolokhov knew how to goad it out of him, the only thing that Anatole responded to. Usually he hid everything behind his lazy smiles and his narrowed eyes, pretending the world was exactly how it suited him and that not a single thing was a problem. But get him into a fight, and give him something to throw himself against endlessly like the sea at a wall, and he would let it out. Dolokhov knew that he was the safest person Anatole had to do that with, other than his sister, and so he did what he could.

“You heard-“ he said, ducking another blow and slashing back at Anatole, three quick, easy swipes that missed him by a breath. “-If she’s _fucking_ him, that’s it and there’s nothing we can do-“ he swore as Anatole shoved him back, hard, stumbling against the sofa and managing to scramble onto it where he could parry Anatole’s blows from a height. “-You knew you couldn’t marry her, you knew she would have to-“ he continued, jabbing his sabre down hard and grazing Anatole’s side, blood welling against his white shirt. Anatole grunted in pain but didn’t flinch, glaring at Dolokhov with his face twisted in fury.

“I’ll kill you-“ Anatole gasped out finally, his attacks coming faster now, wild and uncontrolled. Dolokhov parried the first few easily, but the sheer power and anger behind the thrusts was overwhelming, and soon he was fighting for real, Anatole roaring and swinging at him with every muscle inhis body straining and trembling, Dolokhov pressed back and then surging forward in a desperate rally of blows, driving Anatole against the table until he was pressed with his back against it uncomfortably.

“You can’t kill me, little boy,” Dolokhov sneered. “You can’t do anything-“

Anatole’s blade moved so swiftly that Dolokhov barely even saw it, Anatole shoving Dolokhov back with one foot and them coming at him with everything he had. Dolokhov went to his knee, off-balanced, and only stopped the blade of Anatole’s sabre from slicing through his neck by raising one arm and taking the blow near his elbow, deep in the meat of his arm. Anatole stopped, eyes widening as the blood started to flow, Dolokhov’s thick coat only taking so much of the blow. Dolokhov kept his eyes and his sword trained on Anatole, his breathing fast and shallow. _He nearly killed me._

Anatole moved first, dropping his sabre and falling to his knees beside Dolokhov. “I’m sorry, eh- I didn’t-“ but then he was crying, ugly tears that he couldn’t seem to control, and clinging to Dolokhov, and it was all he could do to hold him and rub his back and wait it out because this was _good_ , Anatole hardly ever cried, and he’d be damned if he was going to stop it now.

“She- she’s just-“ he hiccupped through tears, “-I always hoped, somehow, we could- but then _Pierre_ -“ and he said that name with such venom that Dolokhov almost winced, “She married _him_ and then- well, we can’t and there’s nothing I can do and it’s-“ he took in a shaky breath, “-it’s _horrible_ and I don’t like it.” He said this last as though making a profound statement, burying his face into Dolokhov’s rough coat and curling his hands into balls in the wool like a child. Dolokhov smiled to himself, rocking Anatole soothingly. “I know,” he muttered. “I know, Anatole, _mon cher_ , I wish-“ he stopped himself for a moment and then continued. “I wish there was something we could do too. I love her too, you know.”

“I know you do, Fedya,” Anatole said quietly against him. “I guess, I always thought things would turn out alright, you know? They always did for everything else I wanted.” He sniffed, and Dolokhov closed his eyes for a moment at the realisation that he was wiping his nose on his coat. His arm was bleeding freely now, and he was beginning to feel dizzy, but he just sat himself down more comfortably on the floor and said nothing. Eventually, Anatole continued. “I always get what I want.” Silence, then. “Except her.”

“You have her,” Dolokhov said, pressing a kiss to Anatole’s head.  “Heart and soul, she’s yours, and nothing will change that.”

“I want –“ Anatole hesitated, still stubbornly not looking at Dolokhov for fear his sentiment would be ridiculed. “- I want to show her to society, to have her on my arm and tell everyone; yes, she’s mine, isn’t she beautiful? I want to walk with her, pick flowers for her without having to make a game of it, I want people to say _my, what a fine match they are_ and not just look at us as though we’re sick in the head somehow, _wrong_ somehow because it’s not wrong, it’s _not_.”

“It’s not wrong,” Dolokhov agreed, his chest aching with the injustice of it. “It could never be wrong.”

“You’re bleeding, old man,” Anatole said in a small voice, pulling back finally. “I’ll get you a bandage.”

“That would be splendid,” Dolokhov said with relief, falling onto  his back on the floor while Anatole hurried off to find one.

When Anatole returned, Dolokhov shrugged off his coat, finally feeling the wound properly as his arm flexed. “Fuck,” he said, turning to look at it as Anatole tugged off his shirt and set about wiping the blood away. Anatole was looking at it in something like guilt and terror, and Dolokhov firmly did not mention how close that had been to slitting his throat like a pig for slaughter as Anatole wound the bandage clumsily but tightly around the wound. Immediately, blood started spreading over the white linen.

“I think it needs stitches,” Anatole said doubtfully.

“Looks like.”

“Oh.”

“Surely you can manage.” _Please don’t tell me I have to do this myself._

“I’m not a surgeon, Dolokhov.”

“It’ll be fine till morning,” Dolokhov sighed, tightening the bandage and then getting Anatole to tie another around it, on top. “I think the blood is slowing, anyway.”

“I’m sorry-“

“Can you stop apologising, Anatole? It doesn’t suit you.” Dolokhov smiled at him reassuringly, and then reached for a bottle of rum on the table. “Give.”

Wordlessly, Anatole handed him it and watched in fascination as he drank half of the bottle in one go, pouring a good splash of it over the wound and grimacing. “Right. That will have to do, I think.” He waited for the pleasant warmth and numbness to spread through him,  and then got to his feet. Impressively, he felt alright; exhilarated, even. Anatole looked calm again, his eyes a little red but otherwise fine, and he seemed to have emptied out a lot of the anger he had been suppressing. Dolokhov gave him a wry grin. “Feeling better?”

“Much,” Anatole replied with a grin of his own, smaller than usual but no less welcome to Dolokhov. He extended his hand to Anatole and led him up to bed, the younger man coming meekly and with a trace of his usual cheerful air.

Stripped and curled up together with Dolokhov behind him, Anatole wriggled himself into a comfortable position, and then wriggled again just for good measure. “Anatole,” Dolokhov muttered with infinite patience. “Stop.”

“The bed’s too big.”

“You’re not helping.” Dolokhov pulled Anatole back against him. Anatole wriggled again, back this time, and Dolokhov groaned. “Alright, you need to stop.”

“Why?” Anatole asked innocently, doing it again. Dolokhov swore, pushing his hips forward. He heard Anatole laugh softly. “You know why.”

Anatole sighed and pushed back, the friction delicious and infinitely frustrating. Dolokhov lowered the hand that was on Anatole’s stomach, trailing his fingertips lightly over his skin and smiling smugly into Anatole’s shoulder as he felt his breath hitch a little. Wrapping his strong fingers around Anatole’s cock, Dolokhov kissed his neck, enjoying the familiar hum of pleasure that Anatole let out. It had been a while since it had been the two of them on their own, and as much as he wished Hélène was there, not feeling quite right without her, it was still quite nice to have the boy to himself occasionally. Anatole squirmed in Dolokhov’s arms, turning to him and pressing his body tight against the older man’s, their cocks sliding against each other. Anatole wrapped one leg around Dolokhov’s, desperate for more friction, and his leaned his head up to Dolokhov needily for a kiss. It was a slightly messy, rum-laced kiss, but Anatole’s lips were soft and his breath was warm against Dolokhov’s face and Dolokhov groaned into it, reaching his hand down between them blindly to wrap it around both of their cocks. Anatole bucked his hips and whined, Dolohov starting a steady rhythm that he knew would undo them both in minutes. _That_ was more like it, the frustration switching straight to pure, overwhelming pleasure, and he wrapped the arm underneath Anatole around his back, keeping him close. Anatole’s arms were both tight around Dolokhov, his body a curious, intoxicating mix of hard angles and softness that was a delight to Dolokhov’s senses. It didn’t take long before Anatole’s breathing became ragged, the kiss becoming desperate and hard suddenly as Dolokhov felt himself nearing the edge, Anatole’s hips bucking against him wildly. And then Anatole cried out against Dolokhov’s lips, shuddering as he spilled his seed over Dolokhov’s fingers, and that was it, Dolokhov following him with a jolt of blinding pleasure. His arm throbbed painfully and he knew it was probably bleeding again, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, instead smiling at Anatole in the semi dark, enjoying the way his eyes were half-closed and dark in the candlelight, his mouth relaxed and soft looking. He was so beautiful. It was no wonder Dolokhov had fallen so hard for him so many years ago, this stupid, arrogant little prince who thought the world would wrap itself to his ideas forever. Falling for Hélène too had been a surprise, but now he couldn’t imagine living without them both.

Hearing a soft sigh, he looked down and saw that Anatole was already asleep. He kissed the top of his head softly and tried to get comfortable around Anatole’s pliant form.


	10. Chapter 10

**1802**

When he awoke, the first sensation he had was of _warmth_. Enveloping and soft, it felt wonderful, like he was burrowed in a pile of blankets. He didn’t open his eyes for a moment, enjoying the sensation as he remembered where he was and who he was with.  Turning his head, he opened his eyes slowly, blinking away the sleep and looking into the sleep-soft and relaxed face of Anatole, his eyes barely open and a lazy smile on his lips. “Morning,” he said softly, stretching. Dolokhov nodded. “Morning.” He felt a stirring to his other side and turned to look at Hélène, looking satisfied and comfortable. “Good morning,” she said to the room in general, arranging herself more warmly in the sheets.

Dolokhov was used to waking up near Anatole; they’d spent a lot of nights together in the army, crammed into one bunk. But it was a different thing entirely to wake up comfortable, in a soft bed, between two beautiful people like them. Relaxing, even. He sighed in contentment and shifted a little, frowning when he felt something hard.

Anatole was rocking his hips against Dolokhov’s thigh, his cock hard and insistent even though he was still half asleep. Automatically, as he had done a thousand times before, Dolokhov reached for him, wrapping his hand around Anatole’s cock, smiling a little as he made a low, keening sound of need in his throat and bucked his hips.

“Having fun?”

Suddenly aware of Hélène again, Dolokhov let go guiltily, turning to face her. She raised an eyebrow as archly as she could manage this early in the day, fixing Dolokhov with a look he couldn’t decipher.

“I-“ Dolokhov began, but Anatole grunted irritably, grabbing for Dolokhov’s hand again and returning it to his erection. Dolokhov looked helplessly at Hélène, not wanting to upset the delicate balance they had found and not sure if he was even allowed to be doing anything with Anatole in the same bed as her. His heart was pounding, his cock already beginning to respond despite himself, and for a long moment there was silence between them.

Then, wordlessly, Hélène rolled onto him, straddling his hips, her breasts pressed to his chest. Anatole pushed himself closer, gazing at Hélène with adoration and awe and with an amused grin lurking on his lips. Breathless, Dolokhov reveled in the warmth of her without daring to touch, until she blinked at him mildly. “You know what to _do_ with a woman, right, Dolokhov?” she said, and the spell was broken, his rough hands grabbing and stroking at every inch of skin he could reach, caressing the delicious, soft curves of her, so new and fascinating to him. He realized Anatole was kneeling beside them, and turned his head to kiss him, desperate for him to not feel left out. Anatole threaded his fingers though Dolokhov’s hair possessively, and then pulled away with a smile to kiss Hélène. Dolokhov watched in a haze of arousal that was only heightened when Hélène turned to Dolokhov and kissed him, her lips soft and warm with the hint of a smile at the corners. He could feel her hips moving against him, could almost feel her heart beat, rabbit-fast against his chest.

Then she leaned back, and Dolokhov started to protest at the loss of her warmth when she gave him a searching gaze, glancing to Anatole. A thousand things seemed to pass between the two of them in that glance; later Dolokhov would remember it as an age, when in reality it could only have been a few seconds.

She shifted, lifting herself up, and then sank down onto Dolokhov’s cock in one long, smooth stroke, and Dolokhov was lost in overwhelming, blinding pleasure, so intense that for a moment he feared he was going to embarrass himself like a teenage boy on his first night. But he held it together, his breath ragged and his fists balled in the sheets, long enough to calm down a little. She was so _hot,_ her cunt clenching around him tightly, and he swore colourfully, earning a sigh from Hélène and a laugh from Anatole.

How could Anatole _stand_ this and not go truly mad? It was too much, too wonderful. And then she rolled her hips, and Dolokhov’s focus narrowed to the exquisite knowledge that he was buried inside Hélène and that Anatole was beside them.

“Are you planning to fuck me at all?” Hélène asked, and Dolokhov flushed. He dug his fingers into the soft skin of her hips, braced his feet, and began to slam up into her as viciously as he could. She laughed in delight, her breath cut off short as he filled her again, and she started to move with him, spurring him on to even greater savagery. He snarled up at her.

“You _are_ an animal,” she gasped, digging sharp nails into his shoulders. “Don’t you dare stop.” He had no intention of stopping; he wasn’t sure he could even if he wanted to, and so he said nothing, merely grinning at her with a feral flash of teeth. Her face was so beautiful, her eyes half-lidded and dark, her lips slightly parted and her hair falling over her face in glossy waves. He stored away the image of her above him, his cock so deep inside her, far back in his mind to recall later.

Risking a glance to Anatole, he found him watching them silently and with a terrifying, heady intensity, and suddenly, Dolokhov desperately needed him to be more involved. “Anatole-“ he said breathlessly, reaching out for him. Anatole smiled; a darker, more feral smile than Dolokhov usually associated with him, and moved closer, grabbing at Dolokhov’s hair and tugging his head around. Dolokhov opened his mouth for Anatole’s cock obediently, Anatole’s purring “good boy,” sending a flash of lust through Dolokhov even as it annoyed him. He could just about see them from the corner of his vision, kissing, Hélène now controlling the pace of Dolokhov’s thrusts with languid, rolling hips, Anatole with his fingers working her clit until she was moaning and shuddering out her orgasm. It was too much, too overwhelming all at once, and Dolokhov fucked her with renewed animal fury, spilling deep inside her with a wordless groan around Anatole’s cock. Immediately, Anatole pulled at his hair, twisted painfully, and began to thrust into Dolokhov’s mouth, his eyes watering as he struggled to take it all from the strange angle. He swallowed quickly as Anatole came, his seed hot on his tongue, before falling back exhausted. He could feel his own come dripping from Hélène where they were still joined, and a ridiculous, dazed grin spread over his face.

“Don’t look so smug,” Hélène muttered, swatting his chest lightly and rolling off to lie between them comfortably.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**1807**

She arrived late the next night.

Anatole had spent the day pacing back and forth by the window incessantly, now and then muttering “when will she be back?” followed by “I don’t want to see her,” sulkily, his forehead furrowed in the middle like a child’s. He had a drink in his hand that he had long forgotten, the contents occasionally sloshing out at a particularly sharp turn. Dolokhov had watched patiently and silently, his injured arm stiff and caked with dried blood. He needed a doctor, but he wasn’t about to leave Anatole to his own devices, not when he was in such a black mood. He knew it was pointless to give him platitudes or comfort, and so instead he drank steadily to numb the pain, crowded into a chair that was far too small for him but was at least out of the way of Anatole’s pacing.

“She’s taking so long,” Anatole whined again, looking out of the window like a stray dog waiting on his master. He turned his head to Dolokhov, his face a mask of such pure misery that he could do nothing but sigh deeply and get up to reach out to him, wrapping his fingers around the back of Anatole’s neck and squeezing reassuringly. “She’ll be back as soon as she can,” he said softly.  “You know that.”

“What if she never comes back?” he asked, looking back to the glass. “What if-“ He gritted his teeth and blinked rapidly. “I don’t care,” he insisted instead. “I don’t want to see her when she gets back, eh?”

“Alright,” Dolokhov agreed, knowing the script as it went the same way every single time she had to spend time with her husband. “You don’t have to.”

“Good.” Anatole huffed out a breath and resumed pacing, Dolokhov stepping back and letting him go.

He wished with everything in him that he could make it easier for them. That he could, somehow, make it alright for them to be together, give them the happy, fairytale ending that Anatole still believed in despite all reality. Short of up-ending the entire world, he could see no way of achieving it; and despite his willingness to do so for them both, his practical brain knew there was nothing he alone could do.

It pained him deeply to watch the people he loved be in so much agony.

So he drank, squashed into the chair in the corner, and waited for the fireworks to begin with a mixture of anticipation and resignation.

 _Finally,_ he thought, as he heard hoof-beats pulling up to the doors, the night already dark and the hour late. Anatole stared at him like a rabbit caught in lamplight. “She’s back! I don’t want to see her- go for me, Fedya.” Dolokhov was already on his feet, barely even acknowledging Anatole’s words as he heard them so often.

Hélène wasn’t surprised to see him, merely raising her eyebrows at him in a _well, how was it_ gesture that Dolokhov shrugged in response to. She came to embrace him and he kissed her neck softly, noting that she had clearly bathed before returning as she smelled as fresh as if she had just stepped out of the tub. He stiffened a little as her arms caught his wound, and she pulled back to look at his face, frowning. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, trying to smile at her, but she glanced to his arm, saw the tear in his shirt and the bloodstain dried on the sleeve, and gave him a quizzical, worried look. “What did he do?”

“We were sword-fighting and-“

“Honestly, can I leave you two in a room alone without one of you deciding a swordfight would be a delightful way to occupy yourselves?” she asked, her voice annoyed but her face betraying concern and gratitude. “That’s a very deep wound,” she added, giving it a better look. “You should-“

“See a doctor? Yes, I know. Didn’t want to leave the boy alone when…” he trailed off, guiltily. Hélène’s expression softened. “I know. I wish –“ she stopped herself, sighing instead. “But anyway.” She shook herself, switching her expression to the one she wore in public, all bright smile and dead behind the eyes. Dolokhov _hated_ that smile. It made him feel like his stomach was being rolled like a barrel.

“Don’t do that,” he said, reaching to touch her face. “Not here.”

She wavered, stubbornly, and then dropped it, her eyes unnaturally bright. She leaned into his touch. “Thank you, Fedya. For looking after him,” she said, so softly that he barely caught it. “I know- it’s not easy-“ she seemed to want to say more, but he shook his head with a gentle smile, his heart brimming with love and guilt and fierce protective anger at the injustice of the world that refused to bend to them. Even if she never knew what happened when she wasn’t here, even if she never understood how much anger bubbled right under the surface of Anatole’s cheerful nature-  and he suspected she knew more than she ever said- it didn’t matter, because Dolokhov would breathe not a word that would upset her further.

“He’s in the drawing room,” he said with a tilt of his head in the right direction. “He doesn’t want to see you.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” she tutted, rolling her eyes. She stepped out of Dolokhov’s space and left him all the colder for it, and swept out of the room with a determined step, slamming the door behind her. Dolokhov settled himself in a thankfully larger chair, pulled a glass and a bottle of vodka towards him, and waited for the show.

_Three, two, one-_

“I don’t _want_ to see you, Hélène!”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I know for a fact you’ve been pining for me all day-“

“Did _Dolokhov_ say that?”

“No, you _idiot_ , I’m your _sister_ , remember? I know you, and you’re a whiny little-“

“I am _not whiny!_ I don’t even _care_ -“

“You are a terrible liar, Anatole Kuragin, and an even _worse_ lover! I can’t believe we have to do this every single time I get back!”

“Well maybe if you didn’t go off _fucking_ that idiot-“

“That idiot _happens_ to be my husband, and if you must know I haven’t slept with him for so long that I am _thankfully_ beginning to forget what his tiny, terribly inadequate penis looks like, and would _like_ to continue to heal from that pain, if you would only let me-“

“I wish Dolokhov had killed him in that _fucking_ duel-“

“And that would have looked _wonderful_ for my reputation- do you _ever think,_ Anatole?”

There was a brief sound of scuffling and some more, inaudible shouts, followed by the smashing of glass; and then everything went silent.

Dolokhov smiled, raised his glass to the closed doorway in a salute, drained it, and then stood.

_Now, a Doctor._


	12. Chapter 12

 

**1803**

A year later, and everything was going as smoothly as Dolokhov could have hoped for. They met as often as possible, Anatole especially never far from Dolokhov’s sphere of influence and Hélène with them as often as was societally acceptable; which, tiresomely, seemed to be getting less and less as their father tried new and inventive ways to marry her off. She evaded these attempts with grace, style, and humour; making it impossible for anyone to suspect her of any higher motive in a way that Dolokhov admired and marveled at in equal measure. Anatole was getting restless with it, though- he seemed to be coming to an awareness of things being _not quite the same_ as they had once been, and he didn’t like it. Dolokhov said nothing, preferring to let Anatole have his innocence as long as possible rather than try to let him down with the awful knowledge that Hélène would not be able to avoid marriage forever like he seemed to assume.

“Why have we never met your mother?” Anatole asked him one morning as they lounged in bed. “We haven’t even seen your house-“

 

“I have a house away from my mother and sister,” Dolokhov said carefully, the familiar shame and pride welling up in him. “But they live, oh, a way away.”

“We’d like to meet them,” Anatole said bullishly, ignoring Hélène’s nudges to his side. “You could invite us for dinner!”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Hélène said quickly; and immediately, against his better judgement, Dolokhov scowled and said heatedly, “Why not, eh? You too good for them?”

Hélène rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to say something no doubt appalling, but managed to control herself. “I just didn’t want to inconvenience you all,” she said instead through gritted teeth. “But if you think it would be alright, I’m sure we’d be _delighted_ to join you.”

“I’m sure it will be just fine,” he spat back. “I’ll send a carriage for you tomorrow at six.”

There was a silence for a long moment, and then she said quietly, “Do you suppose I should wear my best dress?”

_I think that would shame my mother more than you coming dressed as your version of a “peasant”._

“Or my second best dress,” she added doubtfully.

“Just- just wear a dress you’ve worn before,” he sighed. “Please.”

“Oh.”

Anatole stirred again and turned to Dolokhov. “What about me?”

“Your uniform should be fine, Anatole.”

 _What have I done?_ He groaned inwardly, screwing his eyes closed at the thought of his poor mother having to deal with them.

 

The next day, and in possession of as many rubles as he could feasibly scavenge, he addressed himself to his mother with a shamefaced expression, and told her what he had done. To her credit, she only paled a little when she learned who it was who would be coming to dinner; taking in a breath, rolling up her sleeves, and turning to the house with a practiced and skeptical air. “Well, you’ll have to help tidy then, my dear,” was all she said. Dolokhov fell to it gladly, apologizing to his sister who also had to help them.

The house was small and shabby despite his mother’s best efforts; there was only so much money to go around-and not enough of it at that- and it went on feeding them or heating their home rather than fixing the leak in the roof, or the pane of glass in the window, or buying new carpets. Dolokhov helped as much as he could, feeling it was never enough, guilt and anger gnawing away at his insides all the time that his family had to live like this. He had done things he wasn’t proud of when he was younger, just to make ends meet- things that still made him wake uneasily in the night-but what else could he have done? His sister had offered to sell _herself_ for them, and how could he have ever lived with himself if she had been forced to do that?

So he sold his own services. At 12, he had been on his knees for more old men than he could count, his young age and his innocent face making him enough money to live on for another week, another month, until his youth faded and so did the appeal for the most lucrative customers. He was thankful he’d only had to suck cock.

He’d gone into the army as soon as he could, desperate to earn a steady wage to send home. And that- and his various enterprises since- was what supported his family, along with anything his mother could earn mending clothes or doing odd jobs.

 

So he scrubbed the house from top to bottom with them, knowing it wouldn’t look much better but also knowing his mother wouldn’t rest until she had done as much as she could and more. He wasn’t afraid of hard work; and besides, the physical task occupied his mind and stopped him from thinking about what a stupid idea this had been in the first place.

When everything was as spick and span as it could be, she dusted off her hands, nodded to herself, and allowed Dolokhov to give her the rubles he had brought. “I’ll go and buy dinner,” she said briskly, putting on her coat. “Dear Fedya, don’t look so glum. I’m sure it will be fine.” She smiled reassuringly at him, and he embraced her warmly. “Thank you.”

 

His sister was less forgiving. “Oh, Fedya,” she sighed dramatically, her eyes sparkling with merriment. “What have you done?” He grimaced at her.

“Don’t you start.”

Laughing lightly, Galina patted him on the head, tousling his hair in the way she knew he didn’t like. “Are these the two you’ve told me about?”

He nodded mutely at her. He had told her, of course- first about Anatole, and then Hélène, expecting anger, disbelief, anything except the calm acceptance she had given him. He hadn’t told her they were related, but she’d worked it out for herself soon enough, enough information slipping out of his description for her to pick it up. She always had been intelligent.

It was a shame she had been born hunchback- she was quick witted, funny, talented, and pretty, a perfect match for someone who could look past what Dolokhov thought to be a very minor problem. So far, no such man had been found, and she seemed content enough with her life, staying with their mother. It frustrated him that she could not blossom here, with nowhere to practice her talents or show off to society.

 

She nodded at him in return, musing. “Are they – will they be alright?” She didn’t add _will they shame mother,_ but he heard it all the same, and he scowled. “They’d better be.”

 

He had arranged the carriage that morning, and so he busied himself with his sister, finding matching cutlery and unfolding the good tablecloth over their table- which seemed so small compared to the extravagant, polished one he ate on at Anatole’s. He said little and she took his lead, understanding the taciturn silence was not aimed at her. Their mother arrived in the early afternoon, laden with a huge ham-the largest Dolokhov had ever seen in this house, anyway- and packages full of vegetables and side dishes, and set to work in the kitchen with a vigor and determination that made him all the prouder.

Dolokhov helped as best he could, not wanting to get in her way when she was busy as she had a tendency to slap him lightly on the head in exasperation, and Galina set places and started digging out the few spare candles they had in drawers. Dolokhov made a note to replace them as soon as he could. It was a tense afternoon, the only noises the rustle of linen and an occasional muttering from his sister as she searched for various things; his mother worked in silence punctuated by “There, dear,” and “No, stir that more, Fedya,” as he tried to help. He was sweating by five pm; his shirt sleeves rolled up and his hands filthy, flour on his cheek and in his hair, his mother neat as a pin and clucking her tongue at him as she tried to wipe the mess off his face. “You should change,” she advised with one look at his clothes. “You look like an urchin.”

With a sigh, he went off and did as she asked, returning with a clean shirt under his uniform, the flour removed from his face and his hair combed and clean again. “Better, mother?” he asked with a half- smile, and she gave him a once over. “Very good. Very handsome.” She rubbed her hands on her apron. “I will change also. Galina! You too.”

They disappeared off, chattering quietly, and Dolokhov was left in silent agony, looking out of the window onto the dirty streets. This was going to be awful. _They’ll make fun and they’ll hate the food and they’ll never want to see me again and why the hell did I do this-_

He pressed his forehead against the glass, groaning. _Fedya, you are an idiot._ He didn’t think he could bear to see the looks on their faces; that slow, dawning realization, the condescension, the _pity-_ nothing was worse than the pity- and he’d get defensive and they’d leave and everything would be ruined.

 

Eventually, the carriage arrived, of course. He looked up from his musings in time to see Balaga pull up outside the house and Anatole and Hélène spill out of the doors, laughing and cheerful. Hélène was wearing a dress that Dolokhov _had_ seen her wear; it was a lovely black and gold gown that matched Anatole’s uniform beautifully. They looked more like a couple than ever, and Dolokhov’s heart lurched with painful love and anxiety mingled in one tight knot. He hurried to let them in, aware of his lack of servants. Anatole, of course, was just delighted to see him, wrapping him in a hug and squeezing him close. He kissed Hélène’s hand politely, conscious that this was not a private dinner, and showed them both inside, his eyes taking in every forgotten speck of dust, every object that looked old and worn. Anatole looked around in unhidden curiosity, his eyes wide and interested, but Hélène, after a brief moment where she hovered in the doorway with her mouth slightly open, tried her best to look as though she dined in these sort of surroundings every day. She did a good job, too; Dolokhov felt a rush of giddy pride in them both as he introduced them to his mother and then his sister. Anatole spent the next twenty minutes flirting outrageously with them both in his usual way, making Galina blush and giggle like Dolokhov hadn’t heard her do in years. Even his mother went a lovely shade of pink under Anatole’s charming attentions; the best part of which was that they were completely sincere in the moment, as Dolokhov knew he was incapable of any real deceit except to himself. Hélène was polite and complimented the tablecloth and the fireplace, but more importantly, Galina’s dress, which she had made herself.

Hélène even surprised Dolokhov by her seemingly genuine interest in it, asking about the pattern and wondering if Galina would like to make her one similar but in _this_ colour- for full pay, of course. He watched his sister’s flustered face and the brief flick of her eyes towards him in an _Is she being serious?_ way that he could only shrug at. Dolokhov had no idea, but Hélène certainly _seemed_ sincere enough, picking out a particular shade of green that she liked and delicately touching the soft material of Galina’s dress with a pleased noise. Galina flushed with pleasure and agreed to make one and send it over via Dolokhov.

 

Hélène seemed intrigued when Dolokhov’s mother excused herself to attend to dinner, and he realized that of course, she’d never had anyone but servants prepare her meals. She half-stood, looking as though she wondered if it was appropriate to offer help simply for the novelty of it, and eventually nudged Anatole instead and gestured subtly at the door towards the kitchen. Anatole sighed melodramatically, with a mischievous smile at Galina, and then made his excuses, trotting off after Dolokhov’s mother.

He could hear them talking in the kitchen, Anatole’s clear, laughing tone and his mother’s low, distinct voice chatting animatedly, and so Dolokhov settled himself back into his chair and cast a sideways glance at Hélène, who had seated herself and smoothed her dress.  He was trying to catch her mask slipping enough to see what she was really thinking, but so far, she was flawless, chatting with his sister as though they were old friends. He knew she had that ability; a way of making people feel awed and special to receive her attention. He often felt it himself, despite all attempts.

 

Dinner was simple, but delicious; Dolokhov had never been more proud of his family than when his mother set down the ham with a flourish worthy of a chef, blushing silently as everyone complimented her. Anatole had at it as though starving- Dolokhov had never seen him refuse a meal before and it seemed as though he wasn’t about to start- but Hélène had to steel herself, her tastes running to the finer things in life, including food. Dolokhov watched her carefully, a scowl poised to appear, but she cleared her throat, took a moderate portion, and ate delicately.

“Oh,” she said, after a moment of silent chewing. “Is this what _just_ ham tastes like?”

“What do you mean?” Dolokhov asked slowly, frowning at her.

“I-“ she looked at him guiltily but continued. “I’ve only had it roasted in sauces and glazed with fruit or honey- I mean, I’ve never had it just- as it is,” she finished.

Anatole nodded enthusiastically. “If this is how all poor people eat,” he said loudly, and Dolokhov swiveled his head to fix a glare on him that would make hardened criminals sweat. “I mean,” he floundered for a moment, looking helplessly at Hélène who shook her head at him. “I- what I mean to say is,” he tried again, “It’s delicious. Really.” He looked down at his plate and poked at a pile of carrots, his cheeks red.

“It really is,” Hélène supplied, looking at Dolokhov’s mother. “Thank you very much.” She ate another forkful with enthusiasm as if to prove her point, and Anatole brightened enough to continue stuffing his face. Dolokhov took a deep breath, trying to resist stabbing someone with his fork, and glanced to his mother in apprehension. She merely shook her head fondly at the two of them. “You two are spoiled little children,” she said, rudely but with affection. “I will teach you how ‘poor people’ eat, young man.” She waved a forkful of potato at Anatole threateningly and he gave her a smile that Dolokhov knew had caught the hearts of many a young woman. “Don’t you start flirting with me,” she responded with a hand clutching her heart. “I can’t take it at my age.” They laughed and the air cleared, Dolokhov’s hand relaxing around his fork without him even noticing.

The rest of the dinner passed without incident except for a brief moment at dessert where he realized he didn’t know if they liked chocolate cake.

Anatole _definitely_ did; in fact, he ate a third of the cake by himself, greedily and unashamedly. Hélène took a large slice and devoured it in such a discreet way that Dolokhov didn’t even notice her eating it until it was suddenly gone.

After dinner, Galina pestered him until he got up and returned with his fiddle; a shining instrument, he had bought it on one of his travels and kept it spotless and gleaming. It had not been cheap, and teaching himself to play it had taken many years.

“You can play?” Anatole asked in delight, clapping. Dolokhov shrugged. “A little.”

“Play us a delightful peasant tune,” Hélène said with a hint of mischief in her eyes; something he was sure she would not dared to have said even a few hours ago. He glared at her half-heartedly and glanced at Galina with a question. She nodded, so he began to play an old folk song he had taught himself in bits and pieces, sticking his tongue out to concentrate. Galina sang, and his mother clapped time, and all in all the effect was rather pleasing. His confidence bolstered, he kept playing, various farming tunes and folk music, snatches of popular songs he’d learned- anything he could remember- and with Galina singing, it grew merry, Anatole and Hélène even dancing a little with his mother until they were breathless and tired and laughing.

 

And then, it was over, and it was getting late, and after hugs all round and a cheerful grin from Anatole- with a whispered “Come over to see us tomorrow, old fellow?” into Dolokhov’s ear- they piled into the carriage and left Dolokhov to the cleaning with his sister. Their mother retired to bed, leaving them alone to talk.

 

“Well?” he asked after an age of desperate waiting.

“They’re rich, spoiled, rude, selfish little brats,” she replied, not looking at Dolokhov and concentrating on the dishes she was washing.

“Yes, I know that. But what do you _think_ of them, sister?”

“I like them a great deal.” She gave him a merry sideways glance. “They love you an awful lot, Fedya.”

“You think?” he asked, more gloomily than he meant to. “I don’t know.”

“Silly boy,” Galina sighed, handing him more plates to dry. He could have burst for the love he felt for his sister at that moment, her easy acceptance and quiet love for him. Instead he splashed her with the water and ducked under her swinging fist with a laugh.

“You’re a fool,” she smiled at him, and he couldn’t deny that. “I wish I’d been able to play for them- if I had a harpsichord or something.”

“You sang,” he said defensively. “It was lovely.”

He slept well that night, despite the damp and the coldness of his old rooms.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**1807**

 

He returned a few hours later, his wound freshly stitched and his purse significantly lighter. His whole arm ached now, a dull, throbbing pain that was tolerable but seemed to be etched deep into his bones.

 _Wonder if they’ve killed each other yet,_ he thought idly as he wandered in search of them.

They were in the dining room, and he heard them before he saw them; they were screaming and swearing and he could hear the unmistakable noise of plates and glasses smashing on the floor. _I should probably-_ he thought, hurrying towards the sound; but he stopped dead in the doorway, a weary look of resignation and amusement sliding across his face as he leaned in the door frame, slouching easily and folding his arms.

They were fucking; fucking _violently_ and with almost terrifying savagery on the dining table, sending glasses and dinner plates and cutlery off in all directions, skittering and crashing to the ground on either side of them without either of them even noticing. Anatole was deep inside his sister, his hands clutched around her throat, fucking her with a brutal, animal intensity that sent a jolt right to Dolokhov’s cock, Anatole’s expression dark and dangerous in the way he only ever got around them. He was snarling, his eyes narrowed to slits, and he was calling Hélène a litany of filthy names and curses that Dolokhov could only hear the half of.

“Fucking _bitch,_ you worthless little slut, aren’t you, you fucking love it, I’ll kill you-“

And Hélène in her turn had her nails in him; deep, angry looking gouges in his back running in lines all across his pale skin. He was bleeding but didn’t seem to care, Hélène digging her fingers in all the deeper, her legs locked around his thighs as if daring him to try and escape. Her face was an exquisite blend of agony and ecstasy, her head falling back, exposing her throat even more to Anatole’s squeezing grasp, her mouth open and her chest heaving. Dolokhov reached for a bottle of vodka on the cabinet beside the door, settling in to watch them. They looked like they’d been fucking for _hours;_ their bodies sweat-slick and shining, their breathing hard and fast, but the insults kept coming and the sheer brutality of it looked just as intense as if they’d only just started. Dolokhov was hard before he’d even taken a drink, ignoring it for the moment in favour of just _watching_ them together. He didn’t often get to see them so lost in each other, so intense; usually he was a distraction, even if it was a welcome one, and this was so intimate despite all appearances that it awed him a little, even after so many years. He could see what others might not; how even though Hélène was tearing Anatole’s back to ribbons, she would occasionally lift one hand to his hair, caressing him as gently as a kitten; how his hands, though tight around her throat, were careful never to go _too_ hard, never to press past the point on which they had agreed on in the past; how his insults were laced with a silent _I love you_ and peppered with kisses to her face, her hair, her shoulders; and how her back arched into his thrusts, how her lips mouthed his name without the breath to say it. Dolokhov saw all of this and his heart ached as much as his cock.

Finally, they were exhausted, and collapsed onto the table with their bodies still entwined. Dolokhov took another drink, cleared his throat loudly, and spoke.

“Hélène, darling, I’m sure when _we_ fucked on a table, we didn’t break anything.”

“Yes, well, Anatole always was clumsy,” she replied breathlessly, barely even seeming surprised he was there. “How’s your arm?” She raised her head to look over at him, and he shrugged. “Still attached.”

He took another drink and sauntered over to them, petting Anatole’s hair fondly and kissing Hélène on the forehead. “I take it you two made up?”

“Don’t we always?” Anatole said, laughing.

“Indeed. But this time, there were casualties,” Dolokhov sighed with a look at the debris surrounding them. “I’m not cleaning that up.”

“The servants will,” Hélène smiled, stretching luxuriously over the table and turning her head to kiss Anatole languidly. She looked satisfied and debauched, bruises on her arms and her neck that she would likely have to explain away to Pierre another day.

Sometimes, Dolokhov also echoed Anatole’s sentiment; he wished he had killed Pierre in that duel, and saved them all this heartache. But then again, if it wasn’t that man, it would be another- he was under no delusions that it would ever be him, Hélène’s family never agreeing to a match between them even if it would make her happy. Anatole didn’t seem to understand this, asking occasionally why Hélène and Dolokhov didn’t marry as though Dolokhov was a prince himself and worthy of the marriage. At least Pierre seemed easy enough to manipulate- Dolokhov had done it easily himself, after all.

 

“This is all very touching,” he said instead of following that train of thought, “But someone needs to suck my cock. I _am_ injured, after all, and can’t be expected to take care of it myself.”

“Of course, Fedya,” Anatole grinned, and they both moved as one, sliding onto the floor with easy grace and somehow neatly avoiding the china. Dolokhov took a chair and leaned back in it, watching with breathless anticipation as they both set to work undoing him thoroughly.

 

-

 

He wondered later how Anatole managed to be so relentlessly optimistic- he had fits of rage and anger, often bubbling under the surface for a while before erupting, but in general he seemed unable to maintain this anger, it eventually dissolving back into his good natured self like the sun breaking through clouds. She was different; pragmatic and cautious, slow to trust except when it came to Anatole, who she assumed would be there as readily as her own arm when she needed him. It had taken Dolokhov months to get past her defenses, and he was still unsure about how, exactly, he had done it. Anatole had trusted him as soon as they had made up from that first, violent outburst at each other, and had never relinquished that trust.

And Dolokhov- he was not usually forthcoming with his own friendship, not really- he had many acquaintances who _thought_ they were friends and several friends who assumed he trusted them, but in reality, Dolokhov trusted no one except his mother, his sister, and these two idiots who had somehow wormed their way into his heart. It was a terrifying thought to know that they had this control over him, that they could hurt him; but he had moved past the constant fear of that to the general, niggling worry that they didn’t feel for him like he did for them.

 


End file.
